Resident Evil: Dirty Laundry
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: When you're tangling with the undead, you're bound to get blood on your clothes.


**Dirty Laundry**

With heavy, rapidly beating heart, Claire Redfield climbs the stairs up to the third floor of the RPD.

It's weird, really – heavy heart, beating heart. She thinks if her heart was heavy, it wouldn't be able to beat that fast. But then, this night's been full of surprises. She's learnt that the dead can walk. She's learnt that an entire city can fall to said dead. She'd learnt that creatures beside the walking dead exist – creatures of twisted sinew and sharpened claw, hissing as they grope through the dark. She's even learnt that far worse than any of those things exist. She's seen something that roams the station, moving faster than any zombie, and focusing entirely on her (far as she can tell at least). She's shot at it, and done nothing. She's run from it, and nearly got herself killed – not so much from the lumbering giant itself, but for the smaller monsters around her, springing out of the dark to tear into her flesh. Once, she was even in the monster's grasp.

It's not a nice experience, feeling a hand close against your skull. Half an hour after said experience, it's still aching. But it wasn't the worst part of it. The worst part was after plunging a knife into its hand and getting it to let go, or, more specifically, what happened after that. It dropped her onto the ground. She backed away a good distance before she climbed to her feet, watching the creature stare at the blade before casually tossing it out and looking at her. This thing, this creature, the bastard she's started calling "Mr. X" in a paltry attempt to maintain her sanity…it did nothing. The knife did even less damage to it than the bullets she'd unloaded onto the monster before realizing it was achieving jack point shit. The way it looked at her, as if to ask, "did you really think that would do anything?"

She doubts he (no, _it_…never "he") was really thinking that. But if it caused no pain, why drop her at all? She knows she shouldn't question luck, but still, on this night, she's been questioning a lot. The world. Her sanity. Sometimes, between it all, she still questions where her brother is. Whether he's still alive. Whether he's still in town. Whether he's among the walking dead, shambling through this station or in the larger city. So far, on this night, she's only seen one living person. Twice. Three times if she includes the police car as being separate from "encounter at gas station" and "chat between bars before helicopter explodes." Indeed, in the moments of sanity that the situation affords her, she finds herself not just thinking about Chris, but Leon as well. Is he still alive? Is he still in the station? Or…Her heart becomes more heavy, even as its beat slows. Or, God help her, is she going to run into him a fourth time? Will he be just another boy in blue, shambling out to grab her? If he does, that's going to make things harder for her than usual – from what she could see at the gate, he was wearing body armour. Granted, she only has to shoot the head, but-

_No._

She pauses on the stairs. She can't think like that. She mustn't think like that. She can't be so removed from her humanity, from humanity itself, that she has to reduce the people around her to the ease in which she can end their lives. Leon's still alive. Chris is still alive. Despite all the shit Raccoon City's thrown at her this night, she's still alive. So she's going to keep climbing the stairs, and-

It happens quickly.

It's in the moments of reflection that she makes herself the most vulnerable. On some level of her consciousness, she's reminded of that. But most of her mind is occupied with the issue before her. That as she comes to the top of the stairs, not checking her corners, one of the living dead lunges at her. Female police officer. Right leg is on a weird angle. Left cheek has been torn into. A few holes are in her chest, through which blood only drips, rather than pours out. But of course, all of that is utterly irrelevant as the monster grabs her shoulders and tries to sink its teeth into her throat.

Claire stumbles back and screams. Funny. She's managed to go through the entire night without screaming. First time for everything though. Which includes falling down stairs.

She hits her back, but thankfully, not her head. What's also thankful is that in the fall, the zombie loses her grip and slams onto the ground beside her. What's less thankful is that the gun she was holding in her hand as she walked up the stairs? Thanks to the fall, she's dropped it. Head spinning (she may not have hit it, doesn't mean she's not dazed), she reaches out for the gun…

The zombie lunges at her again. She doesn't scream this time. But she's forced to use both her hands to hold the monster's neck as it tries to tear into her throat.

_Shit!_

Her body's on auto-pilot as she fights to stay alive – a primal instinct from millions of years of evolution. As her body fights, her mind feels distant. She begins to notice things. She sees that the zombie's teeth are already stained with blood. She can see that its eyes are sunken in, a pale, milky-white meeting Claire's brown ones. She hears the zombie's constant snarls, groans, and hisses. But most of all, it's the smell. She's smelt it before this night, but this close, locked in this battle, this monster lying on top of her, trying to tear into her, it's overpowering. It's the smell of rotting flesh. Of stagnant blood. It is, frankly, the smell of death. And it's a smell that comes ever closer, as the zombie comes ever closer, as its teeth come ever closer, as its hair begins to brush up against Claire's skin, as it tries to bite into her throat, and-

It doesn't happen. She shoves the zombie back. And in the split second of grace that gives her, Claire kicks it off her. The zombie slumps against the wall. With speed that belies its decayed form, it begins crawling towards its prey, still snarling, still hissing, still bearing its fangs and-

Claire shoots it. Its head, or at least a good portion of it, explodes. Blood splatters on the walls, the stairs, and Claire's clothes. But the zombie isn't moving. And Claire, the tremble in her right hand aside, isn't moving either.

_Move._

Has she downed it? She can't be sure. There's been quite a few times this night where she's shot a zombie in the head, seen it go down, only to have it rise up again seconds later.

_Move._

She fights the urge to gag. The blood…she runs a hand through it. It's dark red. Coagulated. That only happens when you're dead.

_Move._

Maybe this is an infection. Maybe she's got it. She hasn't been bitten, but this isn't the first time she's got blood on her. It isn't the first time a zombie has got this close. If it's spread just through skin contact, she's completely fucked.

_Move!_

She still can't obey the voice in her head. She wants to. God she wants to. But her hand's trembling too hard to get her arm to lower. Her legs feel like they're on fir, and she can't move them. Her heart's beating so fast that she's surprised it doesn't erupt from her chest. She-

_Oh God._

She hears the footsteps. They're distant, but they're coming.

**Thump thump thump.**

It's coming.

**Thump thump thump.**

Fucker's got the ears of a rabbit, because it's like she can't do anything in this station anymore without it noticing. She fires a gun, it hears her now.

**Thump thump thump.**

While making her way through the RPD, she hears another gunshot every so often. Maybe it's Leon. Maybe it's Chris. Maybe it's someone else. Maybe-

_Move!_

She gets to her feet. She has to fight the urge to run, because if she does so, not only will Mr. X hear her, but she might run into worse trouble. Zombies. The tongue monsters (she really needs a better name for them, she tells herself). She climbs the stairs, and spares one look for the zombie she's just shot. It isn't her first kill this night. But it is the first where she finds herself without the time or inclination to wonder who this person was. How they died. Who they left behind. She hates herself for it. She knew long before this what it was like to understand that death was a force that existed in this world. But she's alive. Zombie lady isn't. For all she knows, she's the only person alive in this bloody city.

So she keeps moving. She opens a door and finds herself in a laundry room. She clutches her pistol and fingers the bullets in her pocket for reassurance.

**Thump thump thump.**

She's got about thirteen rounds, plus the five in the chamber.

**Thump thump thump.**

Make that twelve rounds, plus six in the chamber.

**Thump thump thump.**

Not enough if he finds her. Not nearly enough at all.

**Thump thump **thump…

But he's not coming in here.

_It._

**Thump **thump thump…

It's an it. Not her. It. And it, as Claire reflects, isn't coming into the laundry room.

For a full minute she just stands there. Back against the wall next to the door. Pistol in her hand. Listening. Waiting. Breathing. Trying to ignore the smell of blood on her. The smell of her own sweat. It's autumn, and she's sweating like it's summer.

_Move._

She takes a step forward. She lets herself breathe again.

_Move._

She does no such thing. Instead, she just stands there.

_Move!_

Stands there as she takes her jacket off and looks at it, frowning.

"Lot of blood here," she murmurs.

She's started talking to herself this night. Not often, but sometimes. Either she's going insane, or it's one of those things that is actually keeping her sane. She walks over to the sink.

"Wonder if this works." She pulls the faucet up and smiles as water begins to come out.

"Just going to wash this off."

She keeps smiling, right up to the point where she looks up in the mirror. Or rather, what's left of a mirror – most of it's been smashed in. Glass is scattered over the floor, and a lot of it is bloody. But there's enough there to see herself reflected. Enough to see the flecks of blood on her face, intermingled with grime. Enough to see…

_No._

She doesn't care what the mirror's showing her. She's going to just wash this blood off, get her jacket back on, find her brother, find Leon, get out of this fucking station, and out of this fucking city. She's going to do that, and no, mister mirror, she isn't going to cry, no matter what it might show welling in her eyes.

She's an adult now. Big girls don't cry. That's what Chris told her, after all – the day he told her that their parents were dead, and that he was now her pseudo-dad along with being her big brother. Not that it didn't stop her crying then, but she hasn't cried since, and she isn't going to start now. What she's going to do is turn off the tap, dab her jacket in the water, get a sponge, and get this blood off. She knows she should use soap, but this is just a quick wash. A bit of cleanliness. Next to godliness. Or something.

"Just like you showed me Chris."

She scrubs her jacket. The blood starts to come off.

"You taught me to do this. You might have sucked at cooking, but you knew how to keep things clean."

She scrubs even harder. Even faster.

"I mean, you were the guy in the uniform. I was just the one who…"

She keeps scrubbing. Her mind's elsewhere. On home. Of being at the sink. Of Chris being there. Of being at home. Of just putting the washing machine on. Of smelling the soap. Of being home. Of…

She lets go of the jacket and puts her hands on either side of the sink. Her upper body's trembling. She hates herself for it, but she can't stop it – she begins to cry.

It's not loud. It's a kind of muffled wail. Her teeth are clenched, her eyes are closed, and the tears just keep coming out. Dropping into the bloody water. Dropping onto a jacket that says "made in Heaven," unaware that right now, its wearer is in Hell. It can't understand how its wearer feels. That what she's feeling now is a feeling of being…_unclean_. She's nearly been killed. She's taken lives. She's a murderer. Her brother's missing. She wants someone, anyone to talk to. She wants it all to end. It can't understand any of that. Not even as Claire Redfield takes it up and puts it back on, finding it a little damp, but thankfully, cleaner. It can't see its wearer look at herself in the mirror, wipe her eyes, and brush a dangling strand of hair aside. It can't understand that this little act has made all the difference.

Claire stands up straight. She counts her bullets again – six in the chamber, twelve in her pocket. Plus a pair of knives, plus a fragmentation grenade. Not exactly guns n' roses, but it's enough.

"Alright," she says to herself. "Let's go."

Enough, she hopes, to keep herself alive.

Clutching her pistol, she walks off into the darkness.


End file.
